"You think the Japanese will leave?"

Sir Francis makes a face of disgust. "The Japanese are like the calorie companies, always looking for a way in. They will never go away." He moves to the other end of the bar, leaving them once again isolated.

Anderson pulls out a ngaw and offers it Carlyle. "Want one?"

Carlyle takes the fruit and holds it up for examination. "What the hell is this?"

"Ngaw."

"It reminds me of cockroaches." He makes a face. "You're an experimental bastard. I'll give you that." He pushes the ngaw back across to Anderson and carefully wipes his hand on his trousers.

"Afraid?" Anderson goads.

"My wife liked eating new things, too. Couldn't stop herself. Had the madness for flavor. Just couldn't resist trying new foods." Carlyle shrugs. "I'll wait and see if you're spitting up blood next week."

They lean back on their stools and gaze across the dust and heat to where the Victory Hotel gleams white. Down an alley a washing woman has set out laundry in pans near the rubble of an old high-rise. Another is washing her body, carefully scrubbing under her sarong, its fabric clinging to her skin. Children run naked through the dirt, jumping over bits of broken concrete that were laid down more than a hundred years ago in the old Expansion. Far down the street the levees rise, holding back the sea.

"How much did you lose?" Carlyle finally asks.

"Plenty. Thanks to you."

Carlyle doesn't respond to the jab. He finishes his shot and waves for another. "Really no ice?" he asks Sir Francis. "Or is this just because you think we'll be gone tomorrow?"

"Ask me tomorrow."

"If I'm still here tomorrow will you have ice then?" Carlyle asks.

Sir Francis flashes a grin. "Depends how much you keep paying mulies and megodonts for unloading freight. Everyone talks about getting rich burning calories for farang… so no ice for Sir Francis."

"But if we're gone, no drinkers. Even if Sir Francis has got all the ice in the world."

Sir Francis shrugs. "As you say."

Carlyle scowls at the Thai man's back. "Megodont unions, white shirts, Sir Francis. Everywhere you turn, there's another open hand."

"Price of doing business," Anderson says. "Still, the way you were smiling when you came in, I thought you hadn't lost anything at all."

Carlyle takes his new whiskey. "I just like seeing all of you on the veranda looking like your dogs died from cibiscosis. Anyway, even if we've had losses, no one's chained us in a Khlong Prem sweat cell. No reason not to smile about that." He leans close. "This isn't the last of the story. Not by a long shot. Akkarat's still got some tricks up his sleeve."

"If you push hard enough on the white shirts, they always bite back." Anderson warns. "You and Akkarat made a lot of noise, talking about tariff and pollution credit changes. Windups, even. And now my assistant is telling me the same things that Sir Francis just said: all the Thai newspapers are calling our friend Jaidee a Queen's Tiger. Celebrating him."

"Your assistant? You mean that paranoid yellow card spider you keep in your offices?" Carlyle laughs. "That's the problem with you. You all sit around, bitching and wishing, and meanwhile I'm changing the rules of the game. You're all Contraction thinkers."

"I'm not the one who lost a dirigible."

"Cost of doing business."

"I'd think losing a fifth of your fleet would be more than just a cost."

Carlyle makes a face. He leans close and lowers his voice. "Come on, Anderson. This tiff with the white shirts isn't what it seems. Some people have been waiting for them to go too far." He pauses, making sure his words are understood. "Some of us have been working toward it, even. I've just come from speaking with Akkarat himself, and I can assure you the news is about to turn in our favor."

Anderson almost laughs, but Carlyle wags an admonishing finger. "Go ahead, shake your head now, but before I'm done you'll be kissing my ass and thanking me for the new tariff structures, and we'll all have reparations in our bank accounts."

"The white shirts never pay reparations. Not when they burn a farm, not when they confiscate a cargo. Never."

Carlyle shrugs. He looks out toward the hot light of the veranda and observes, "The monsoons are coming."

"Not likely." Anderson gives the blazing day a sour look. "They're already late by two months."

"Oh, they're coming all right. Maybe not this month. Maybe not next, but they're coming."

"And?"

"The Environment Ministry is expecting replacement equipment for the city's levee pumps. Critical equipment. For seven pumps." He pauses. "Now, where do you think that equipment is sitting?"

"Enlighten me."

"All the way across the Indian Ocean." Carlyle flashes a sudden shark-like smile. "In a certain Kolkata hanger that I happen to own."

The air seems to have left the bar. Anderson glances around, making sure no one is close. "Christ, you silly bastard. Are you serious?"

It all makes sense, now. Carlyle's bragging, his certainty. The man has always had a freebooter's willingness to take risks. But it's difficult to distinguish bluster from sincerity with Carlyle. If he says he has Akkarat's ear, perhaps he only speaks with secretaries. It's all talk. But this…

Anderson starts to speak but sees Sir Francis approaching and turns away instead, grimacing. Carlyle's eyes sparkle with mischief. Sir Francis sets a new whiskey beside his hand, but Anderson doesn't care about drinks anymore. As soon as Sir Francis retreats, he leans forward.

"You're holding the city hostage?"

"The white shirts seem to have forgotten they need outsiders. We're in the middle of a new Expansion and every string is connected to every other string, and yet they're still thinking like a Contraction ministry. They don't understand how dependent they've already become on farang." He shrugs. "At this point, they're just pawns on a chess board. They have no idea who moves them, and couldn't stop us even if they tried."

He tosses back another shot of whiskey, grimaces and slaps it down on the bar. "We should all send flowers to that Jaidee white shirt bastard. He's done his job perfectly. With half the city's coal pumps offline…" He shrugs. "The nice thing about dealing with the Thais is that they're really a very sensitive people. I won't even have to make a threat. They'll figure it out all on their own, and make things right."

"Quite a gamble."

"Isn't everything?" Carlyle favors Anderson with a cynical smile. "Maybe we're all dead tomorrow from a blister rust rewrite. Or maybe we're the richest men in the Kingdom. It's all a gamble. The Thais play for keeps. So should we."

"I'd just put a spring gun to your head and trade your brains for the pumps."

"That's the spirit!" Carlyle laughs. "Now you're thinking like a Thai. But I've got myself covered there, too."

"What? With the Trade Ministry?" Anderson makes a face. "Akkarat doesn't have the muscle to protect you."

"Better than that. He's got generals."

"You're drunk. General Pracha's friends run every part of the military. The only reason the white shirts don't run the entire country already is because the old King stepped in before Pracha could squash Akkarat the last time."

"Times change. Pracha's white shirts and his payoffs have made a lot of people angry. People want a change."

"You're talking revolution, now?"

"Is it revolution if the palace asks for it?" Carlyle reaches nonchalantly across the bar for the bottle of whiskey and pours. He upends it and gets less than half a shot from the bottle. He raises an eyebrow to Anderson. "Ah. Now you're paying attention." He points to Anderson's tumbler. "Are you going to drink that?"

"How far does this go?"

"You want in on the deal?"